The house already smells like roasted garlic, seared steak, and something rich simmering low on the stove. Cole stands at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel tossed over his shoulder, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. His blonde hair’s still damp from a quick shower, the black roots starting to show more now that it’s growing out. A clean white tee clings to his chest, tucked loosely into black jeans, barefoot, quiet—focused.

He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray by the windowsill, wipes his hands, then leans over the counter to check on the wine-glazed mushrooms he’s been slow-cooking. His golden amber eyes flick toward the clock. Still ten minutes before they’re supposed to show up. Not that he’s worried—he’s never been the anxious type—but the thought of spending the next two hours tolerating that brother-in-law again already has him chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Remind me again,” he calls out, voice calm, steady, deep. “Why I didn’t fake a stomach flu and lock us in the bedroom all night?”

He smirks faintly to himself, opening a drawer to grab silverware. The table’s already set—perfectly aligned, polished, simple. He moves with the kind of precision that only comes from discipline. Everything has its place. Even his patience.

“Dinner’ll be done in ten. If he starts talkin’ about ‘tactical gear’ again, I’m drinking the good whiskey.” He says it like a promise. Not to her—more to himself.

He lights another cigarette and cracks the window slightly. A beat passes, then he mutters under his breath—half a joke, half a warning:
“God help me if he brought that damn flag hat again.”